


Between

by Dana



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Canon-typical violence and language, Established Relationship, M/M, Physical as well as emotional whumpage occurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone needs to hold on, and someone else needs to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between

**Author's Note:**

> Ficlet that spawned from a prompt **little_cello** gave me. Betaed by . Story was posted originally on the LJ comm **lifein1973**.
> 
> Story is pretty old but well-loved, I have a bad habit of writing things and then sitting on them for a year before I ever get them posted.

'You ready to talk yet, copper?'

Throat raw already from what feels like hours of screaming (of begging, of pleading), Sam whimpers (hold it in, Sam, hold it in), trembles, shivers from the wet, the cold, panic and exhaustion in equal measures: 'I don't know anything... anything about... about Harris Noble! Please, please, I – ' He takes a great, heaving gulp of breath. 'Please, I keep telling you... I don't _know._ '.

What he does know isn't anything they want to hear: that they're smugglers, that they've been investigating them, hoping to take them down, and for all Sam could have snapped already and _broken_ , told them any of that, he's been able to stick to only telling them what he _doesn't_ actually know. He doesn't think it's going to last forever, that resolve – he can feel it slipping away, every second that trudges on by him, every moment that drags the end that much closer to the now. He's weak, worn down, torn apart, and beaten black and blue, but still, Sam's putting up a struggle (he always has to fight) – it's feeble, at this point, attempting to shrug off the pair of strong (so very strong) hands that are forcing him to kneel in place. They pin him down the way his wet trousers stick to him like a second skin.

Takes a ragged breath, still trembling, groaning as he fights to keep his eyes open. 'Please just...' He swallows, shudders, it hurts just to _speak_. 'Listen to me... I don't know anything, I don't know anything, I don't know anything!'

It hurts even more by the time he's through with it – because he's yelling, and he should know by know that yelling won't do him any good.

Laughter, bitter, cruel, something that defines his existence – at least, it has over the last few hours. The room, indistinct – the edges of his vision blurring in a way that's less than helpful, narrows what he can see, what he can feel. Cold grey concrete reaches out forever, filled with chilly, stilted air. The only thing that Sam really _can_ see, beyond the people (and now, too hurt and too tired, they're not much more than indistinct blobs) is the long tub in front of him. Rusted with age, it's filled with water that, on a good day, might be called scummy, dirty, soured. But today? Is not a good day.

They'd stripped his shirt off at some point, left him in his vest, between one point and another that involved beating, an abundance of beating, left his wrists bound behind his back throughout the majority of that entire process (hadn't just taken his shirt off, had they – one of them had seen fit to use a knife, slicing right through cloth, the same ease he might have sliced through flesh...). Gene needs to –

 _Gene_.

A laugh – the one to the right of him, he thinks – fingers digging into his shoulder, giving him a rough shake, a cruel twist. The pain has to push its way through the haze of Sam's awareness – it takes it a moment to catch up. The words, though, travel faster than that. 'Don't know about you, Mickey, but I just don't believe him.'

'Why should ya? Already know the little shit's a liar.'

Sam shakes his head, frantic, world tilting this way and that as it rattles around in his head. He hasn't been lying. He really doesn't know. It spills out of him, his mouth finally doing as he'd like it to, catching back up with his thoughts. 'No, please, I don't – '

That same old litany – hasn't done any good yet, but Sam keeps _hoping_.

Only then he's being shoved forward, head first, back into the water, too little air in his lungs, mouth clamping itself shut. He struggles against the hands that (so strong, _too_ strong) hold him down, and Sam kicks out – again and again. As the breath burns out inside him, as he's filled up to the brim with nothing, the fight slips out of him like light into dark. At least he didn't get any of the water in his mouth this time. This time.

Understandable panic throbs through him – his heart pounding, frenetic – and it won't be long, he can feel it, it's going to be too much this time, too long. Vision blacking over from oxygen deprivation, Sam knowing that he can't continue to hold his breath, not anymore, and any second now, the pain will be too much, the strain, he'll –

Sam's jerked backwards, back onto his knees, cold water running down him, icy rivulets of it, and –

(at least the water washes away the blood)

– move shivering, sudden sobbing, raggedly sucking in air, lungs screaming to be filled, even as they do as they need. He doesn't even know where the strength for this is coming from, because it's gone beyond adrenaline now, any remaining, hidden reserve of the stuff long gone, drained. Maybe the same point that proved to be the one where he broke (only it really is too bad for them, he doesn't know what they want). 'I don't know, I don't know, I don't know! Stop, please stop!'

More laughter (harsh, bitter-sounding, too pleased to cause him more pain). More begging (don't know, don't know, _don't know_ ). More water, Sam thrust back beneath it again, how some of it ends up in his mouth this time, soured, bitter and old, and him not having been able to close his mouth fast enough.

It's not stopping, it's never going to end.

And then, like pieces falling into place, or perhaps being ripped away, one by one: He feels the fight slipping from him once more, and through the haze – the distortion of sound through water – he thinks he hears shouting (his vision is giving out), he thinks he hears shots being fired (and then everything else is giving out as well). 

Blackness.

Pain, drifting in it, only...

Is this is what dying is like? There was something he needed to – 

More shouting, movement – Sam being jerked about, moved onto his side (forced, but it's not like there's anything in him that would think to resist), pounded on his back, empty seconds passing by, drumming inside his skull – and then, like a switch that's been flipped from off to on, he's retching water out onto the cement before him. The shouting doesn't stop – 'breathe, Sam, breathe' – but it's not like he has to be told, shuddering as he does just that, his battered lungs flaring and spasming as he tries to lose himself in the rhythm of it: in, out, in, out, again and again and again.

Lungs, do your job. Involuntary reaction. No need to focus, just let it happen.

He's pulled up into a sitting position, feels one hand steady against his back, the other arm about his chest. He doesn't seem to be handcuffed anymore, but his arms don't want to move, and he leans into the firm support of that arm, as though it were the only thing left in the world. It's comfortable. It's familiar. That doesn't make sense, because nothing about these bastards is comforting or familiar, other than the pain they've been inflicting, and, well, familiarity does breed contempt. This is – 

(well, it's not the same thing)

He turns his head, blinks, blinks harder, but Sam can't see straight. His vision is too blurry, spotted with black and grey that creeps across his sight, wriggling lines of it as well, and he just needs time, _please_ , time to catch his breath, _please, just let me catch my breath_.

' – am? Come on, I know – '

'No,' he whimpers, and speaking hurts, everything hurts, he shuts his eyes and then immediately blinks them, rapidly, only he can't seem to clear the blur. 'I don't... I don't know anything. Stop it. Please.'

' – safe, you daft – '

He's crying? When did he start crying? Not when they'd broken him – right? Only when...

He doesn't know.

'...please... just let me... please...'

He sags forwards, breathing, _breathing_ , and then he's not just being supported – the arms turn him about, let Sam's lean his weight into a familiar broad chest. He hears words, floating somewhere above him – far beyond the water, the pain – words like _ambulance_ , and _hospital_ , and _pain in the arse_. That last is spoken somewhat fondly, thick with worry, tinged with anger, and Sam blinks his eyes once more, opens his eyes wide, and _sees_.

'Guv?' His voice cracks. His throat's beyond just raw. He needs to stop existing. Well, barring that – he really doesn't want that, if anything this night has proven he desperately wants to stay _alive_ – he needs to sleep. 'I told... I didn't know... wouldn't listen t'me...'

'Come on, Sam – '

'Stop... stop... they wouldn't...'

'I know, Sam, I know – nothing you'd've told them would have made the sodding bastards happy anyhow, and – ' Silence drops. Sam closes his eyes once more, his mouth as well, and, well... thinks. Those CPR courses really must have come in handy, the ones he took, the lessons he forced on Gene in return (years ahead of the books, that's Sam) – Gene doesn't have to actually say it out loud, just how glad he is that Sam forced him to endure any of it at all. Sam's very good at reading between the lines, after all, even when he feels like he should be dead – isn't he dead already, in a way? 'Good. Don't even have to tell you to keep that bloody trap of yours shut. Just focus on breathing for now, alright? Ambulance'll be here soon.'

Sam nods, doesn't speak at all, just rubs his cheek against Gene's increasingly wet shirt. He only just then hears Ray's voice, Chris' too, remembers that they're in the middle of a crime scene, only – well, the rest of the world falls away as Sam lets Gene crush him against his chest –

(that can't be helping, but – )

(he's okay, he's breathing, he's _safe_ )

They stay like that, silent, until the ambulance arrives to pry Sam from his arms, carrying him away.

–  
–

'You feel like talking about it, Sam? I mean, you know...' Annie sighs. 'Well, anything at all?'

Silence. Sam's head is bent over a stack of paperwork, and when it looks like he's ignoring Annie, he gives a faint shake of his head. That doesn't help, if the look of frustration on Annie's face says anything, the one Gene can plainly see – and it says a ruddy _lot_ – she wrings her hands together. He knows she's about to give it another go.

Sam is supposed to be alright, after all. It's been a bloody long week. Maybe there are some bruises that need to heal – he broke his watch and dislocated his left wrist at some point during his struggles, not that he'd noticed at the time, not until they had to pop it back into place once he'd been taken to hospital (Gene'll have to do something else about the watch). They kept him overnight to make sure he hadn't knocked anything too essential loose, keep an eye on his lungs, his breathing, that sort of thing. Gene of course had missed out in sleeping in a proper bed and had propped himself up in that rickety plastic chair in Sam's hospital room, just to keep a sodding eye on the bastard, only – 

Sod it all, it'd been too bloody _close_.

Sam made it up to him once he was out, of course. He wasn't quite feeling up to frying up a greasy breakfast to say 'thank you', but he bought one for Gene instead.

'Alright, just... ' Annie's voice knocks Gene out of his thought. He blinks, runs a hand back through his hair, contemplates lighting a cigarette up but decides against it. Annie looks sideways at him, then back down at Sam, like she's lost for the right words. 'Just... you've been working yourself too hard. Try to get some rest, okay?'

She frowns, must know just how sodding lame that sounded, but then she smiles and, though her gaze lingers on the back of Sam's bandaged wrist, she pats his good hand lightly. If there's anything Sam's been doing lately, it's been getting rest. 'And if you need anything, just... just, say something, okay? Anything.'

It's not like Sam to not want to talk (and talk, and talk, and _talk_ – if there's one thing Sam's good at, it's not shutting his mouth), and while Gene appreciates the silence... well, if he knows his deputy (and he likes to think he does), then he knows it's not good. Annie gives him another look as she passes him by, one Gene can read like the simplest of books – sort this bloody mess out, Guv. Maybe not in those exact words, but the meaning is close enough – he certainly gets the gist of it.

Gene knows what he needs to do.

He stomps towards Sam's desk – Sam doesn't look up, not that Gene had thought he would – when he flinches, though, that's perfectly expected. Ever since the entire messy situation down at that warehouse, Sam has seemed... well, rattled was a good word. Worn down. Tired. Spooking at the slightest thing.

'Oi.'

Like that – Sam flinches once more, tapping his pen against the desk. He's huddled about himself, miserable and small, and Gene really needs to do something to knock some sense back into his head. Possibly with his fist, but only as a last resort. Violence sorts out most problems, but sometimes it's more delicate than all that.

'What?' He might not look like he's in top form, but he _sounds_ so much better than he did back in that warehouse.

Gene shrugs and rolls his eyes. 'Come on, time to do some actual work.'

'Guv, I – ' Sam tilts his head up, and Gene finally gets a look at his face – of course the poor sod hasn't been sleeping well, that much is obvious, but the look in his eyes is _haunted_ , and that's a stab of ice through Gene's heart, cold that flows right out into his blood, thick and sluggish. Sam eyes his bad hand, favours it, then gives a loud sigh. 'You know, whatever. Maybe it'll get you off my back.'

Gene blinks, watches Sam pick himself up from his seat, tug his jacket on – careful with the one arm. 'Well? Hardly gentlemanly to keep a lady waiting.' The bitterness in Sam's voice is a bit surprising – just a bit – so Gene sighs, shakes his head, then grabs at the back of Sam's jacket to get a better hold on him. The leather creaks, Gene swinging Sam around in order to steer him from the room.

'Just stop your bloody complaining already, Dorothy.'

Sam goes without a fuss, but the constant silence is louder than any words. Chris stumbles into the wall in order to get out of their way, scatters casefiles all over the floor. Gene continues directing Sam down the stairs, then outside, the early afternoon sunlight glaringly bright after the stuffiness of the indoors. He lets Sam go, but he dutifully follows behind, smoothing his hands down his arms before he buttons his jacket up. Gives the Cortina one sullen look, then takes his place on the passenger's side.

More silence – the car makes better conversation at this point, bloody hell – and it's half three by the time they stop outside the Railway Arms.

'A bit early, don't you think?'

Gene grunts, turns the ignition off, slams the door on his way out, and Sam sighs behind him, closes his door with equal force. '…you think drinking will solve all my problems? Wait, of course you do.' It is, in the last week, the most Gene's heard Sam say in one go, so maybe his plan really will work. Get him pissed. See what happens. Hardly the most well-thought out plan, but a good enough one for what he wants. To do what he needs to do to get Sam to _react_.

Gene shrugs, pulls the door open, waves Sam in. 'Don't see how it'll cause any new ones.'

'I... you know... typical. How bloody typical. Whatever. Let's get started.'

Nelson is surprised to see either of them so early in the day, but he doesn't make it into an issue, just gives them the drinks that Gene orders and then pays for. See, he really does care – looking into Sam's well-being, and more than just that, he's paying from his own pocket. Of course, he nurses the one whisky – nice and slow – while Sam throws all caution to the wind, downs one after the other as if they were water instead.

It's something, watching Sam come unravelled – hardly the first, doubtful it'd be the last – but it's a strange sort of compulsion that locks Gene's gaze onto Sam's. Watching the shadows in his eyes – how his throat moves as he swallows, how his tongue flicks out, from time to time, to catch a stray bead of liquid that had escaped past his lips. How it seems like such a bloody pity that one or the both of them are always pissed out of their mind when they get to the kissing. Not that he expects that tonight. Well. Today.

Sam's careful of his bad wrist, of course. He's careful about a lot of things, skittish, and this is the most annoyed Gene's seen Sam since he dragged him out of the water. It means he's getting better – right?

Gene hadn't slept that first night after Sam had been found, because Sam might have been sedated but the nightmares were so sharp, they were still cutting their way through. He cried out in drugged slumber, small and helpless, bruised and bandaged, and after he'd been unable to wake Sam himself, Gene had to be the one to call the nurse on in. Then it seemed to be that Sam was fighting against the drugs, the way he'd fought against the odds in real life, and Gene had to be forcefully expelled from the room when it became apparent they were going to have to tie Sam down to keep him from knocking himself out of his bed.

Didn't the bastards know anything at all? Sam didn't need to be tied – 

'I can't breathe.'

Gene blinks, pushes his way out of those thoughts once more. Sam's staring at him, eyes big, dark and round, and even a bit glassy, but he's sure that's because of the drink. Shakes his head, tears caught in his lashes, one hand clinging to his glass like it's the only thing he has to hold on. The way it looks right now, it is – like Sam's about to topple from his chair.

'I can't... I can't breathe. Help – '

Gene feels like he's dragging himself through molasses as he stands up, chair skidding as he pushes it away. Sam's leaning to the right, his fingers uncurling as they begin to go slack, eyelashes fluttering closed. Gene catches him as he slumps out of his chair, almost goes right with him.

'Mr Hunt? Is – '

'S'alright, Nelson. Sodding fairy's no good at holding his drink.'

Still, Nelson gets the back door so Gene can drag Sam back out into the sun, watches them a moment longer before closing the door on them, giving them their privacy. Sam rouses, groaning as he does, shoving against Gene's shoulder, hard, with his bad hand, not that he seems to notice. 'No... no... let me go.'

'Daft sod, it's me,' Gene mutters, but Sam hits him again – blinded to the pain he had to be causing himself – and Gene loses his hold on him, Sam's legs buckling and then taking him to the ground. He catches himself, staggers a bit, on his hands and knees, and the sobbing catches Gene by complete surprise. Why wouldn't it? For all he thinks Sam's the girlish sort, it's not like him to cry like that, it just isn't.

'Stop... stop... please... just listen to me... I don't know... I don't know anything...' Sam tenses, shudders, bends his head forward and convulses, heaving up nothing at all – must just be his body reacting, stimulated by memory instead of reality, because otherwise he might have sicked up the whisky instead (and what a waste that would have been). This was either a very good idea, or it was... not.

'Sam.'

Gene eases closer. Sam sits back on his knees. 'I don't... I don't...'

'Come on, Sam, it's me.'

He puts his hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam tenses. In a blink, Sam turns on him, springs. Gene gets knocked to the ground, a fist planted into his jaw. He's spitting out blood as he puts his hands up to defend himself, to catch Sam before he's able to swing on him again. He acts fast, but still, not fast enough.

It's like he's watching Sam tear himself apart, and he's taking Gene down with him.

–  
–

The dull throbbing where Sam's fist contacted with the bastard's jaw reminds him he needs to fight, _he can't stop fighting_ , he just can't, because somehow he's certain he won't survive it if they get their hands on him again.

He just won't.

He's going to...

_Sam lumbers forward, seems intent on swinging on him again, and Gene already has that pain pounding dull in his jaw, the taste of blood flooding his mouth, Sam flying at him like the wild-eyed madman he currently happens to be._

Sam swings again, but this time his fist meets empty air, staggering forwards on unsteady legs. He can't see straight, they're grabbing for him, they're going to get him, they'll kill him this time, he knows it. Shouting at them –

Maybe he's (still) already dead. He hit the ground, and he never got back up.

_All he has to do is close enough, grab him again, hold him down – he thought he'd already lost him, but with this nonsense going on and on, day by day, he's losing Sam still. Now, Sam is raving, waving his arms about, his dangerous fists flying, fighting off memories._

_Fighting off Gene._

He waves his arms at the figures that loom before him (the figure), a haze of blobbish shadows, shifting as his vision spirals around him. He can't see straight, can't tell what's real and what's not. He's going to drown in it. Sam waves his arms again, panic dragging him down, squeezing his chest. 'I don't know... leave me... leave me alone!'

His vision swims around (he's still trapped under water), stumbling and then swinging against the arms that grab for him. Sam's hands make contact with firm resistance, someone grabbing hold of him, holding him and not letting go.

_Making contact, finally, grabbing hold of Sam, grabbing hold of him and pulling Sam against him. The ranting continues, but he picks out actual words now, as Sam's shouting slows itself, panicked pleading instead._

_'No... no I don't....'_

_'I've got you now, Sam, I've got you. Bloody hell, Sam, come on, you're safe.'_

'No... no I don't....'

' – hell, Sam, come on – '

'No, I don't know... I don't know... stop it, please!'

He slams his head forward, makes contact with something hard – hears cursing, a groan of pain, but it's indistinct, and Sam can't stop it, the sudden sobbing, followed by screaming, the heavy hand that clamps down over his mouth – the other arm that's keeping both of his own pinned in place. No, no, no – fight, fight Sam, don't stop fighting. If you stop, you're not going to survive!

_'No, I don't know... I don't know... stop it, please!'_

_Sam blinks rapidly, doesn't see him at all, the ripple of his panic, the dampness in his eyes. Gene's got a good hold on him now, so maybe if Sam just gives him a moment, _listens_ to him, Gene can get him to calm down._

_Oh, what's he even thinking – Sam never just listens to him!_

_Of course, then Sam tenses, slams his head forward, makes contact with Gene's nose, and it's a bloody miracle that's not bloody as well. Still, Gene groans out loud at the sharpness of that pain, curses, tightens his grip to keep Sam from slipping away. There's soft sobbing, there's screaming, and Sam's really going to cause a scene, one out the back of Nelson's of all places._

_He clamps his hand down over Sam's mouth, presses hard, Sam's breath hot and frantic._

_'Come on Sam, it's me, listen to me, you're safe – now, I know you're in the middle of having a bloody psychotic break, give it a rest, just give it a rest, you're alright now, Sam, you're safe!'_

' – Sam, it's me, listen to me, you're safe – bloody psychotic break, give it a rest, just....'

(maybe sometimes Gene does listen to him)

(it's Gene, Sam, you know it's Gene, you're safe, it's _Gene_ )

 _'Come on, Sam, it's me, it's **Gene**!_ '

A muffled cry, panic and frustration, Sam jerking his head back, opening his mouth wide, teeth sinking into the exposed flesh of the hand that was just pressed hard against his mouth, that hand then jerking away. Another cry, this one not one of his own, and Sam's stumbling as he's being pushed away. He feels his legs give out beneath him, he's stumbling back down into the water now, but he doesn't catch himself, just goes down, hard. Sam pushes himself up on one arm, still can't _see_ , he's sinking back into it. He didn't escape them, the water is pulling him back down –

_Bloody hell but that sodding _hurt_ , Sam biting him like he'd really cracked and gone more than just round the bend. Gene favours his hand, watches as Sam stumbles, then falls, then tries to push himself up on one arm. Gene stumbles towards him, feels like he's pinned against a wild animal at this point, because Sam's so bloody far gone – lost in memories, the drink not having helped him at all – that he might just go off again at any time now._

Can't do it, can't – 'I can't breathe, stop it, stop it, please,' and Sam rolls over onto his side, coughing and gagging, trying to hold himself up. Coughs harder, more gagging, and Sam's eyes burn – his throat is worn raw – as a fresh wave of sobbing crashes down over him, as his insides spasm and then he's heaving up, water (no, just whisky), water and bile, he's _dying_ , he's already dead.

_And Gene standing there, staring down at him, feels hopeless and helpless, like Sam's being torn away from him again. He opens his mouth, ' _Sam_ ', and Sam coughs, gags, coughs some more, though perhaps that was just an unhappy sounding laugh. Like he's going to drown. No, like he already has._

_He's looking at Gene now, like he can actually see him, eyes wild and wide. 'See,' he gasps, voice gone raw. 'Drinking my problems away was _not_ a good idea. It never is.'_

_Gene takes one more step towards him, wonders why it took so long to make himself move such a small amount – well, worry for how Sam might react, really, it always comes back down to something relating to that. He has to drop those concerns and simply pull Sam up and against him, to hold onto him, to give him something to ground himself against. It's definitely not because he needs something to hold onto in return._

_Because if he doesn't hold onto him now, he might just lose him forever._

_The way he already thought he'd lost him forever._

He's being pulled up, pressed against Gene, it's Gene that's holding him, he always knew it was Gene. 'Christ, Sam, I've got you now, you're – '

'Stop... they wouldn't stop... I told them... I didn't know. I didn't know!' It's still hard to see – the sun is shifting in the sky, the light is weakening, Sam's insides feel torn apart, ripped and shredded. What did he do to his hand? (He knows what they did to his wrist, well, what he did to it, because he was fighting to survive.) He grabs hold of Gene's coat with the hand that can grip it properly and leans his head against it, kneeling together on the cold concrete out behind the pub.

'...safe?' He can't close his eyes without seeing the water, without tasting it.

_'Yeah, yeah... you're safe. Bloody hell, Sam, you don't... you don't have to say anything more, just... I've got you...' Gene's got him, but why does it always feel like Sam's ready to slip away? Why does Gene have to know what it's like to watch the light fade from Sam's eyes? Why – ?_

_It's always a fight, and if Sam really wants to stay, why does it seem like, one way or another, he's always running away?_

_Not right, Gene, not right at all, because it's hardly Sam's fault. Gene knows whose fault it is, really._

'Don't... don't need to say anything? That's... that's different...' The laugh is bitter, like the taste leftover in his mouth, and it hurts, it stings. Sam closes his eyes, holds onto Gene's shirt, breathes him in and doesn't let go.

_And he watches Sam, feels him settle against him, his breathing as it evens out – he's still breathing, after all this time – and what hold does the little prick have over him that makes his insides splinter apart at the thought of that cold long stretch of time when he hadn't been breathing at all?_

_It's Sam he's holding onto, so Gene expects the fight to come back at any second now, because Sam's never one to just let well enough alone. It's a rare treat indeed for Sam to just sit and hold onto him, breath stirring against his shirt, heat soaking through to the skin underneath. He never signed up to _care_ like this, too much, too deeply, and all for one sodding person. And that being his bloody DI of all people._

_'Safe now, you daft git,' Gene mutters, the words heavy, and Sam nods against his shirt, fingers tensing, holding on tighter._

Safe. Sam's safe. He's only just seeing it, only now aware: Gene's face, the dribble of blood down his chin, the concern that's tinged with anger, how Sam knows both of those things vastly different emotions are directed at him (well, maybe some of that latter is held in reserve for the people who did this to Sam in the first place, but with Gene, you never really know). How he knows that he's safe. He can feel it. It's a blossoming of heat that goes done deep, wipes away the memory of drowning in endless cold.

_Safe._

'Sorry,' he mumbles, pressing his face into Gene's shirt, at last feels Gene's arms winding about him.

'What for?' Gene's tone – airy, almost amused, but it's so much more than that, really. Deeper, as deep as the water had been. Maybe even deeper than that.

_'Hit you,' Sam snuffles, rubs his cheek. 'Got blood on your shirt.'_

_As if a little thing like that should matter, after everything else – but then, it's a detail, and Sam does always go on about the details, all the little bastard things that might seem inconsequential, but matter so much. So Gene just stares back at him, tires to make sense of him, as if he'd ever be able to bloody make sense of this man._

_'Hmm.'_

He tilts his head back, sees the blankness that settles over Gene's expression.

_Sam tilts his head back, and Gene can finally get a good look at him._

_'You'll pay to get it cleaned. Come on, let's get you home.'_

_Well, that'll be that. Hold on. Don't let go. Push Sam when he has to but always, always, pull back harder than he would have at the start._

Sam huffs out a laugh – doesn't really feel like there's any reason for it – bends his head against Gene's shoulder once more. Nods, nose bumping against his arm as he does, winding his fingers into Gene's shirt, his coat, not ready to go. 'Yeah, okay.'

–  
–

Gene tilts Sam's chin up, frowns as he wipes at the tear tracks thick on his cheeks. 'Sod it all, Sam,' he mutters, as Sam loosens his grip on Gene's coat, reaches up to scrub at his chin with one hand. What else can he say? Sam's face is damp, his fingers wet from the trickle of that blood. Other than a drunken ramble, sobbing, a half-arsed attempt at a fight, it hasn't actually been sorted out. It's Sam, what does he expect? He's not the sort to just be 'sorted out'.

'Gladys, just – '

When Sam kisses him, it catches him off guard the way it _always_ catches him off guard (because it never should have happened in the first place, because he should have sent him packing back to Hyde the first time it ever happened) – so, the fact that he lets it happen, that he always lets it happen, that he never pushes Sam away how he should, is what surprises him the most.

It's desperate, it's fast, it's Sam gasping for breath afterwards, blinking the remnants of tears from his eyes. He smiles, like he's pleased with himself, like he might actually be _okay_ , and Gene's definitely okay with _that_.

'You sorry for that too?' Gene's got those same tears on his lips now, that and the taste of blood. Sam shakes his head. Gene's lips twitch into a grin. It should be simpler, but it never is. 'Good.'

Sound of grit as Gene pulls himself back up to his feet, Sam as well. Sam eyes his bad hand, flexes his fingers slowly. If it bothers him that much, he'll make a fuss of it. That much Gene likes to think he can trust.

He doesn't even have to go through the extra effort of dragging Sam with him, his DI totters along behind him. Nelson gives them a look. 'Everything alright, Mr Hunt?' Gene raises his eyebrows and gives Nelson one of his most mirthless smiles, giving Sam a shove towards the door.

'One of these days I'll remember that this one is no good at holding his drink.'

'Oh piss off, Guv,' Sam mutters, 'I've lost track of the times I've had to take your keys away from you because you decided it necessary to drink your weight in booze, to keep you from wrapping the Cortina around a telephone pole just because 'Guv's always right'. And don't even get me started on the number of times I've...'

He staggers a bit, uncertain on his feet, slams the door behind him as he heads back out. Nelson's giving Gene another look, but he ignores it, pays off the last of their bill for the afternoon instead, that one drink of his own he'd thought to down.

'Got your hands full with that one, don't you, Mr Hunt?'

'Yeah, yeah I do, and that's the bloody truth. From the moment he decided to waltz into CID and act like he owned the place.' Gene groans, feels a headache coming on, but wouldn't that be the slightest pain of his day – had a number already, after all. He nods at Nelson, pushes his way out the door, and he's caught up to Sam in no time at all, between his own long stride and the fact that Sam's just standing outside the pub, arms hanging at his sides, fingers curled into loose fists, but his head turned to the sky.

He wavers slightly, must be half-pissed still, hands clenching, then relaxing. Like he's focused on something Gene can't see, or maybe just breathing, in and out again, in and out.

'Oi, get a move on, Marjorie,' Gene mutters, stomping by him, and he catches sight of the grin on Sam's face as he lowers his head, nods. As if to say, I'm really okay. As though Sam's facial expressions are ever a completely reliable means of letting a person know what's going on inside that head of his. Quite the opposite, really.

Sam's voice, from behind him, somewhat bleary. 'Right away, Guv.'

He's a bit unsteady on his feet as he moves towards the car, Gene slowing his pace to let Sam catch up with him, pass him by, that bit of swagger in his step as he reaches for the door causing Gene to roll his eyes. Such a little thing, the sort that might distract him, but Gene turns his head away from him, eyes on the Cortina.

'Back to work?'

The headache keeps creeping, Gene feels it pressing behind his eyes. 'Yeah.' Maybe once he gets Sam settled in, once he knows the git won't be stumbling into any more trouble, Gene will finally be able to relax.

 _Work_ – no, not exactly.

The station is where he should have taken them – or maybe even to Sam's flat. No, where they end up is outside Gene's house instead, and the perplexed look Sam turns on him – the furrowed brow, the slight frown that weighs down his lips – just makes Gene groan in frustration. 'Are we not going back to work?'

'I am – you, though, are making an early day of it. Not ready for active duty yet, Sammy-boy – and I want to leave you somewhere I know you'll be safe,' Gene announces loudly, pushes the door open, a sudden rush of wind whipping his hair into his face as closes it behind him. Sam's not moved, sitting sullenly, and Gene bangs on the hood of the car as he walks round it, scowling at Sam as he does.

'Don't make me drag you inside. I will, and you really don't want me causing a scene. Make the neighbours talk, and they say too much as it is.'

'Right, because that's my job, isn't it? Act like a lunatic.'

Act like a lunatic, because that's what he does. Act like he doesn't know how to take care of himself, which Gene believes more and more. Act like he doesn't understand what losing him would do to Gene – oh, most definitely the last.

Still, Sam unbuckles the seat belt, steps out of the car, grabs onto the door to keep himself from falling over. He shoots Gene one small, quiet look – not quite glaring, it's too sad for that – before he makes a beeline right for the front door, right up the path, Gene easily catching up to him. 'I'm okay, you know. You're making an issue out of nothing, Guv.'

'I think your definition of 'okay' is different than mine. You're nothing of the sort. In you go.' He does give Sam a little shove, but it's really not needed. Sam goes inside, carelessly shrugs out of his jacket, wincing as he does. 'Get yourself settled in, Gladys. Some of us have work to do.'

'I am... I can do my job.' Sam frowns, teeters on his feet, catches himself on the wall and then scowls at Gene, no fondness at all. 'You're the one who decided it was a good idea to get me drunk.'

'You're the one who drinks like a bird.'

'I do... do not.' Gene gives Sam another shove.

'Look, kip wherever you feel like.'

Sam looks like he's going to start fussing all over again, thankfully giving a little nod instead. 'This isn't over. I – I will continue this. Just as soon as I can think straight.'

'Good, good. I'm sure Cartwright'll be delighted to know you've decided to do as you've been told – I'll let her know just as soon as I bloody can.'  
Sam wavers, blinks slowly, hangs his jacket up and then frowns, hanging onto the leather, scrunching it before letting it go. 'I didn't mean to worry her. I...' Sullen, sad, like he's drowning in that too.

Do you mean to worry me? Christ, Gene's really starting to think like a sodding bird.

'Tell her I'm... I'm...' The little frown, the way his brow is drawn together, Sam rubs at his cheek, shakes his head. Helpless, miserable, lost. Gene huffs as he scowls, gives him a push towards the living room.

'Get some rest, Sam.'

A nod, wordless compliance, but Sam's really not letting him win this, just conceding defeat for the moment. He totters off uneasily, wordlessly collapsing onto the sofa. Why do days with Sam always seem to go on forever, lingering, twisting in on themselves before stretching out even further, beyond any sort of reasonable end? The way –

There was something wrong about the air, something unnatural, a chemical element that Gene couldn't place, but maybe that was just due to the age of the rather worn down warehouse, having stood on the premises longer than Gene could recall. Rust and age, wearing it down, but it was solid enough still. Good enough place for these bastards to hold their stolen goods, and maybe Sam was right for once (more than once), because if it hadn't been for the little sod's nattering on about details, on double and triple checking what the witnesses had to say, they wouldn't even have this little bit to go on. That's what brought them to this bloody point, after all.

Just the three of them, guns in hand, they'll make a proper break of this. Cut the smugglers off at the beginning. And all, yeah, all of that would happen because of Sam.

Sometimes it really is a good thing, a proper sort of benefit, having Sam on his team. Of course, letting him know that would just turn him into an even more insufferable prick than he normally is, so it's good that Sam's halfway across town at the station and not –

'What was that?'

He gives Ray a look, but he shrugs, and Chris does, too. 'Could have sworn it sounded like the – '

Gene raises a hand, cuts him off, a bit more creeping forward. There's a maze of boxes on this half of the massive room, that give good cover but make for a long wandering walk. Still, the air beyond is empty, just waiting to be filled, and the voice carries through it sharply, no obstacles standing in its way.

'...I don't know! Stop, please stop!'

It's Sam, bloody hell, it shouldn't be Sam! Sam's voice, and then rough laughter, the sound of water sloshing about – oh, fuck.

'Shit. The little bastard – '

Sometimes, Gene really doesn't like knowing that voice as well as he does. When he's happy, when he's sad, when he's messily drunk and ready to kiss both their troubles away, when he can't just keep his mouth shut, as though the world would collapse beneath its own weight if Sam Tyler wasn't going on and bloody on. And then, the ragged despair in his voice as he begs for his life. No, not Sam, and him begging for his life, because he's just not the sort. If it's Sam, maybe he's just begging for it to stop, desperately wanting it to come to an end.

'…. Guv? Gene, are you... you alright?'

Gene blinks, his head is splitting open, and there Sam is, bleary-faced, sitting up and staring across the room at him. Such a bloody aching divide, a gulf that Gene wants to bridge, only he shakes his head, shakes himself out, needs to get moving. 'Get some sodding rest, Dorothy.'

Work – he has work to do, a job, and maybe Sam can lie about on the job (there's a mix of emotion welling up inside of him, hurt and confusion, but it's sudden overwhelming anger that's leaving him breathless), but some of them have more important things to do. 'Gene, maybe you should...'

'Shut up! Just shut up, alright!' He's angry, and it makes him feel pathetic, his bloody stupid emotions. Scrubbing at his cheek, he turns, storms out of the room, slams the door behind him.

A temporary moment of absolution, because just like Annie, Gene wanted Sam to talk. Well, now he's talking, and all Gene wants is for him to _stop_. The sunlight is glaring down at him, and try as he might there's just no good that's going to come out of this day.

He really hasn't heard the end of this yet.

–

He doesn't drive himself back to CID. He takes himself back to the pub, is drowning in his drink by the time his team start filing in, though it's only Annie who acts like his having got an early start is anything out of the ordinary. She stops beside his table, there's already laughter in the background, and isn't that a bloody obnoxious sound? There's too much of it, far too much of it, and he'd hoped the pressure in his head might lessen – that the headache might just bugger off – but if anything, the drinking's only seemed to made it grow worse. Not that Gene feels like admitting that.

Annie's voice cuts through everything else. 'How's Sam?'

Gene huffs on a laugh, waves his hand – he's not wavering in his seat, he's not. 'Ah, classic, just classic. Cut right to the chase.' So his words are slurring, that doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Maybe if he drinks enough, he'll –

( – He won't close his eyes and see Sam's face, pale, slack, his eyes cold and empty – )

Maybe if he drinks enough, it'll all make sense.

Still, Annie frowns. 'I see you're in a right state, Guv, but let me repeat myself – how's Sam?'

'Sam's... Sam.' Gene frowns. There'd been something more he wanted to say. 'I had to... had to drag him out of the water myself, Annie, and let me tell you something – it's... it's never a good thing... when he stops talking. Always has something to say, that one.'

The background sounds grow dull, all bleed together, pressure in his ears. Annie looks from side to side, then back down at him, and then Gene reaches for his glass, Annie pulls it away.

'You need to go home.'

'I would... I would... only some ruddy bastard seems to have taken my keys.'

Annie makes a noise, might have been a laugh, might have been Gene just losing his mind. 'They're right on the table, Guv – though, you do make a fair point.' He sees them, but so does Annie, and she moves faster than he could, and that doesn't seem right at all. 'You need to go home, and you don't need to drive.'

'You are not... not stealing my keys... the way Sam would, y'sodding... tart...'

He sees Annie roll her eyes, pocket his keys, but after that it's sound and sensation, and little more than that. Annie gets a lot done with a sharp look and a sharper word, she really does his team proud, and between Annie's direction, plus Ray and Chris, it all flickers on by, Gene's vaguely aware of being dumped across the back seat of his car.

' – oh, he'll have a bloody fit – '

'Yeah, and he's not fit to drink anymore, not in this state. Sam might talk him out of it, but Sam...'

'Really, Cartwright, the Boss doesn't just magically fix all the problems of the world. He's just a – '

Gene groans, rolls over, curls in on himself, Christ, he really drank too much, however much it had been. 'Look, I just need to make sure he gets home safely – whatever happens after that, I guess I'll be the one who deals with that too. Just...'

Sam's... Sam's...

How much of that foul water had Sam ended up swallowing down?

Shots are fired, the bastards drop like flies, but Sam's slumped forward into the dirty water and there's really no telling how long he's been there, only that he's not moving now, not moving at all. Gene couldn't rush it, even when he heard Sam's voice – because he knew what a vulnerable position he was trapped in, completely at their mercy...

How long had it been? Gene's already taking too much time. Move, move, _move_.

Gene shoves his gun away, grabs hold of Sam's soaked shoulders as he yanks him back and out of the water, and all he wants to do is scream, to shout, you're not supposed to be here, Sam, what are you doing here, you obnoxious pain in the arse?

Maybe some of those thoughts were actual words, but Gene can't be sure, because his hands are on Sam now, his fingers pressing at Sam's neck, looking for a pulse. And Sam –

The car hits a bump, he should give Annie a thorough lashing for how she's handling his car, he really should, only –

Sam's pale, wet, cold, still as a sodding stone, his eyes wide and dark and _blank_ , staring up and out, the dark water that's dribbling out from the corner of his mouth. Gene can't say anything, his throat is too tight, his tongue is numb and useless, can hardly think to _act_ , because he's too late and now Sam's dead, and isn't that just the biggest irony ever: because he wasn't even supposed to be in that bloody building in the first place only somehow, beyond any reason, he is.

('Grabbed me outside my flat,' he'll later mutter, voice still raw, one of the few things Gene insisted on hearing him say. 'Thought I knew something about Harris Noble, but I swear, Gene, no matter what I told them – that I didn't know what they wanted me to know, or who this bloody man was – they just wouldn't _stop_.'

And then he says: 'I didn't tell 'em anything about the bust.' Softly, poignantly, like Gene had expected his betrayal – as expected as it might have been, given the circumstances. Still, Gene never had doubted Sam – hardly could, not when he hadn't expected him to be there at all.

Of course, then Gene'll tell him to shut his mouth – his voice sounds like a bloody, broken wreck, must feel like hell, because it's certainly hell on his ears – get some rest, and Sam will spiral down into that silence, and well, then it all starts.)

Distantly, a muffled groan of pain, then a louder one, a curse and the clink of cuffs. Still, all Gene can see is Sam. See him. Start reacting, Gene, because you think it's too late, but it doesn't have to be too late.

'Is he...?'

'The bloody hell's he doing here...?'

'Guv?'

He can't tell the difference between the now and the then, it's blurring together. One's just the same as the other. 'Don't die on me. Don't you dare die on me. I – '

'He didn't.'

'...please...'

Sam can't be dead. Sam can't be gone.

Well, he'll be happy to know that Gene more than just paid attention during those CPR courses that Sam insisted he take, plus the hands-on training that Sam shared with him as well (some of the technique being drastically different from anything else he'd ever seen, only Sam insisted on it being the right way), and of course he's de – out cold, just out cold, while Gene's doing his best work ever. How he tilts Sam's head back, tries not to pay too much attention to that cool, clammy skin, the way his equally wet fingers slide against it, how he can't keep his grip.

It happens somewhat automatically, what he needs to do coming back to him and then simply happening, starting with how he pinches Sam's nose (that part is important, right?). Ray is saying something at him, and it's Chris that shouts at Ray to just shut up, but the focus is slipping away. All Gene can see is Sam.

Gene takes a deep breath, fills his lungs, leans down and pushes his mouth against Sam's, exhaling with all the force he can, pushing that breath into Sam's lifeless – not lifeless, just still, just sodding still, Sam will come back from this, he will – 

Wait, breathing isn't all he needs to be doing – there's chest compressions, too, and Gene just needs to get his hands in the right place –

'Guv?'

See – see – Gene can hear him already. He's going to be alright.

But between the compressions and that one burst of breath, it isn't enough, so Gene stops off doing one thing to gather another deep breath, pushes that one in as well. He pulls, stares down at Sam, presses at his neck once more, looking for some reaction. Nothing, not one blink, one flutter, something to tell Gene that Sam's still with him, that Sam's come back –

More chest compressions, then – he's not losing him, no, not like this, not ever, most especially when there's still something Gene can do.

'Come on, Gene, I've got you now – I'm safe. Let it out. It's okay.'

He's not giving up – this isn't it. He stops again, pulls back, gathers up another lungful, and he's breathing that into Sam, feels a twitch against his lip, one and then another. Gene draws back, stares – at least, tries to see, but his vision is unhelpfully blurry, and that's just putting it lightly – Sam's head lolling to the side. Sam's eyes, blinking, and then the spasm that takes him – the coughing – Gene turning him onto his side as he retches, spewing foul water out, pounds his back until the coughing fit subsides.

'Breathe, Sam, breathe.'

As if Sam would have to be told.

It's Ray that passes him the key for the cuffs, and Gene undoes them, but he's numb, too numb, Sam's coughing again, so close, it'd been too close and he's going to be torn away – Gene jerks him into a sitting position, feels Sam's weight sagging against his arm.

'Hey – hey. Come on, Gene. I'm right here. I'm safe. You saved my life. Come on – come back to me. Please.' How can he sound so patient, the way he might with a child, when all Gene wants to do is shout and –

He's crying? When did he start crying?

Gene blinks, feels like he's going to be sick, droops against the support of Sam's arms. Isn't this a turnabout. Fair play, he could have something to say about that. Only, he really doesn't know what to say.

It's the living room, just him and Sam – he must have helped Annie get him inside, because Gene couldn't have been in the most agreeable of moods – and it's just them, just _them_ , sitting on the floor, maybe just looking like a pair of bloody fools. He twists about, crushes Sam to him, the way he did when he first knew that Sam was still alive. Gene doesn't care, not now that he's got a living, breathing Sam in his arms, and even if they do look like fools, Sam at least must be used to that sort of thing.

'Keep thinking I'm going to lose you,' Gene mumbles. 'Stop making me think that, Sam.'

'I – okay. Yeah, I can do that, Gene. I'll get on it right away.' It's not a promise, because they both know it's not the sort that Sam would just be able to keep. And maybe Gene is a lot of things, but he doesn't want to make Sam into a liar on top of everything else.

Still, in that silence that follows, it seems to say: some good things pass through your life, you have to hold onto them while you can. So, as Gene presses Sam against him (holds on tight, breathes him in, pushes his face into the crook of his neck), he knows all he can do is just that.

'We'll be okay,' Sam whispers, and Gene nods, but no verbal response is forthcoming.

This time, no force in the world can pry Sam out of his arms.

Somehow, though, he's sure the world will try.


End file.
